Blackhand (26 page)

“What do you plan on doing with that thing?” a voice called to him with familiarity. It was Aul. She rode upon the same gray mare she had before the battle, although now both were stripped of their armor.

He stopped and cocked his head at her. “I do not know yet. The Agara is still trapped inside. It cannot fall into Ru's control again.”

“We can protect it within our vaults,” Aul offered. “They are buried a mile beneath the earth.”

Quintel shook his head. “No human precautions will suffice. The thing must stay in my sight until I figure out what to do with it. Did you collect the stones from the dead Thogs?”

Aul dismounted. In the distance behind her, the men had found the Agara's body and were debating how to get it back to the city.

“We've gotten most of them. Ninety wagon loads,” she said. “We have a company of men sifting through the ash for the rest.”

“Good,” Quintel said. He could see in Aul's heart that she was not sure how to treat him. She was not willing to merely bow down to him. But she also accepted the fact he was some sort of supernatural entity. For the first time in her life, Aul believed she might be addressing a superior, and she had no idea how to react.

“Will you be using the stones to create your own monsters?” she asked, feeling bold in her question, testing the boundaries between them.

Quintel looked at her, shocked by the suggestion but showing no expression. He had never thought of such a thing. The idea was repulsive. What did Aul think he was? Ru's creations were sacrilegious. What violations had the god committed to gain such knowledge? What travesties had he embraced? Ru's creatures were... abominations. Quintel remembered that was the label the Agara had also given him.

“No,” he answered. A heaviness settled upon him. Where did he fit in among the travesties? Was that why the Lanya had treated him with contempt? Was he like the Thogs? The Agara? “Throw them over the edge of the world.”

He turned and headed up the escarpment toward the capital city. At that moment, Aul noticed his blackened hand. She had thought it colored with the Agara's blood.

“Your hand!” She exclaimed. “Has it been stained?”

“The Agara bit it off,” Quintel said. “I commanded the limb to grow back and this is what came.”

He saw her reaction to the blackened member. The response was not unlike his own. Somehow, the hand seemed to be more than a replacement for his previous one. It had significance beyond giving him symmetry. It marked him.

Aul did not want him to see her discomfort and changed the topic.

“There are reports that the Lanya have returned,” she said. “And their reception of you was not generous.”

Quintel kept moving up the steep slope of the escarpment. He hadn't sorted through all the events of the last few days. He wasn't sure what to tell her about the Lanya.

“We had a misunderstanding,” he replied, not turning around. Aul said nothing but he could feel her watching him trudge up the rocky hillside.

“It's unfortunate you have to lug that cursed rock around with you,” she shouted as he reached the top of the escarpment. “If only it were something useful!”

As soon as the words left her mouth the idea came to him.

“You have a good point, sister,” he called back to her. There was something about Aul that moved Quintel. She reminded him of Aran.

Quintel thought about what she had said. He did not feel comfortable disposing of the larger stone with the others. Unlike them, it was not a merely a motivational force. It held a living Agara. He wanted it close. If he had to keep the stone, it should be useful to him. As he walked alone across the empty landscape, he studied the stone with the whole of his consciousness. He crawled within its structure and saw how the Agara fit inside. He saw how it maintained form under the strain of its occupant.

Holding the stone before him, Quintel allowed his will to flow over its surface. He somehow understood the object. He knew how he could change it. The Agara inside saw what was happening, but could do nothing to stop him.

In his hands, the stone began to transform. Since it was a product of will and consciousness, those were the forces that could act upon it. Steel could not break it, fire could not burn it, but willpower could forge it into any shape he wished. And Quintel had learned one very valuable lesson during the past two days. He needed a sword that would not break.

The god in him came forward to help with the task. Somehow, the fragment knew exactly what to do and how to do it. As if following some instinct, the divine sliver reached out and caressed the Agara stone, commanding it to reform into the image within Quintel's mind. The godly sliver guided his attention along certain lines within the stone, revealing hidden grains of construction that could be convinced to take new shape.

Arcs of energy crackled over the black stone's surface. It stretched and folded beneath his will, taking the form of a long one-handed sword. At first the weapon looked crude and simple. Then details appeared. A fuller ran down the length of the blade; a hilt shaped itself to the grip of his new hand. The edge flattened to impossible sharpness.

In a few moments, he found himself holding a perfectly forged weapon. Black and without sheen, it seemed to melt into his same-colored hand. The Agara within glared back at him with malevolence. Violated.

A slight smile pulled at the edge of his lips. His sword would never break again. Quintel stuck the blade in his belt and continued toward Jura.

He had learned something new. Touching the stone with his thoughts, willing it to change shape, watching the god emerge to help him, all combined to open a door. The events let him peer into another world. None of those acts came from his human self. They were not like wielding a sword to kill Thogs, or climbing a wall to avoid detection, or running for days without stopping. They were not even like the times he journeyed across the physical world without his body.

Creation through willpower, rearranging matter to conform to his thought -- those were the acts of a god. They made him feel complete.

He saw the capital city miles away and walked leisurely to get there, still healing the last of his wounds. He looked forward to speaking with the Vaerians. He hoped they had some lore or science that could help him master his power. Quintel needed guidance on how to destroy Ru. His Thog army was crushed, but the god still sat in his perch. Until Sirian Ru fell, Quintel could not rest. But was he ready to face such a task?

By the time he arrived at the city gates, the victory celebration had begun. The city square, where he had been kept prisoner earlier, had transformed into a sprawling party. Although only noon, drunkenness permeated the lifelight of every man and woman he saw. Even the ones who had lost loved ones at the Iron Gate celebrated, for the deaths had not been in vain. A steer turned on a spit in the middle of the square. Musicians paraded the stone streets playing tones which competed with the overall roar of the milling crowd. Bands of Vaerian soldiers mingled with their Abanshi counterparts, listening to the story of Quintel's butchery of the Thogs.

A woman in the crowd recognized him.

“The Thog Stacker!” she shouted. “He is here!”

All turned and silence fell upon the celebration. Quintel walked into their midst, suddenly conscious of his feral appearance. His clothes were in tatters and stiff from the dried black blood of the Thogs. His hair hung in filthy ropes and he smelled of rotten flesh and gore. A god he did not resemble.

The Abanshi soldiers who had been audience to the fight were the first to fall to their knees. The other Abanshi citizens followed. The visiting Vaerians, still not believing the tales told by their allies, dropped their gaze out of politeness but did not kneel.

“Stand up!” Quintel said to them, made uneasy by their adoration. “I am not to be worshipped. I am one of you!” While some eyes dared to look up, no one stood.

The sound of horses came from the gate behind him. It was Aul and her entourage returning with the Agara's body, which they dragged behind their mounts. The site of her people bowing to Quintel caused her anxiety. She swallowed hard and looked at him seeking some sign to confirm this was what he wanted.

“Tell them to stand, Aul,” Quintel said, but it sounded like a command.

He saw Aul's lifelight shift. Rainbow rings of luminescence moved from her chest to her head. Her crown of determination adjusted and shimmered gold. She had come to some kind of understanding, some sort of realization, about him. She dismounted and held her hand in the air.

“Rise, my people!” she said to the kneeling crowd. “My brother is not served by your veneration.”

Tentatively, many of the Abanshi stood. Others kept their eyes on Quintel while Aul continued.

“Although a god lives within his heart, Quintel has not been sent to us as a king,” she said, her voice resonant with authority, as if the meaning of his existence was about to fall from her lips. “His power does not come from the blind faith of followers. He does not seek to lead armies that hang upon his every command!”

Aul walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. Even Quintel was mesmerized by her certainty. He saw fire dance through her mind. He saw complete confidence fill her lungs and throat. Everything she said was true and a part of him wished he had the qualities that gave her such surety. She could not know these things for fact but she made herself believe she did.

“He is not a leader, but a sword!” Her voice rose and he saw this was something she had done before, a task she knew. She was rallying them behind her. “He is not the warrior, but the weapon! Look at the brand which distinguishes him!”

She lifted his blackened hand into the air for the crowd to see. Many gasped as they realized that the limb was not stained, but transmuted.

“This is the hand that wields the sword of a thousand warriors! Why would we waste it holding a scepter?”

Everyone in the crowd was now standing. He saw their hearts follow her words in unison. He saw their acceptance spread like candles being lit one by one. Even he believed her.

“Quintel has not asked for power or authority from me. In his wisdom, he has never asserted his rights as a prince of the Abanshi,” she paused, “for he knows that such power would bind him. It would chain him to the ground. It would prevent him from fulfilling his destiny!”

Something moved inside of him. He had not realized these things before she said them, but now he believed. Somehow Aul was the one who knew what to do with him. At that moment, he worshiped her.

He also saw something else moving in her light. He could not define it, but it was something that served herself more than her people. She was using the moment to consolidate her power over him. She was steering the course of her own destiny. It was not a selfish act, but one driven by a motive she kept hidden even from herself. Quintel was not offended. Aul was seizing opportunity.

“Do not burden him with your worship!” Her chin was high, her shoulders pushed back. “For such love would be a prison. Instead, let him follow the path the gods have carved for him! Let him slay Sirian Ru!”

As if reacting to an unseen prompt, the crowd roared with acceptance. Their hearts were filled with sure direction. The Vaerians drew their swords and held them high above their heads, swept away with the others and more convinced now that the Agara's body sat before them.

Confidence took the place of uncertainty. They were on a path. He did not see this in the crowd, for his eyes were upon his sister. She made him feel it in his own heart.

Aul turned to him and spoke in a low voice. “Go to the palace and wash the battle from your skin. My attendants will bring you proper attire.” She put a hand to his shoulder and the gesture warmed him. “Tonight we dine in your honor, brother.”

Smiles filled all faces, and the crowd broke into smaller groups, losing the oneness they shared when Aul was speaking. A servant approached Quintel and guided him up the city street toward Aul's castle.

Chapter 31

The bath was warm. Nurturing attendants rotated in and out of the room pouring carafes of hot water into the tub, while others scrubbed him with coarse towels. Two of them were dedicated to combing out the knots in his hair. The bath reminded him of his capture by Huk when the servant women had prepared him for torture and execution. Only then his tub hadn't been hammered from silver.

Although they showed no outward signs, he sensed the servants were unnerved by his blackened hand. They could not figure out what made it that way. Its tone did not reflect that of any race and was more like the dark emptiness of the night sky. When they washed the limb, their touch was tepid and distant. They sought meaning behind the change.

The water darkened from the Thog blood and the attendants drained and refilled the tub several times before it remained clear. They dried him and dressed him in long robes of
blue and silver that smelled of pine. Ornate trimmings sparkled along the lapel and sleeves of the robe. Soft boots covered his feet.  They offered him a choice of necklaces and rings from the royal vaults, but he declined to wear them.

When finished, the smiling attendants led him to a large mirror to show off their efforts. There, Quintel saw his reflection and the sight made him freeze. While the attendants were trying to impress him with his elegant garments, all he saw was the entity within them. He was nothing but white light. His soul was a blazing flame. The variety and sparkling grandeur he saw in the lifelight of other humans was absent.